Urgh, I was going to shut Polly down and then for some reason I remembered I hadn't BEDA'd. Sigh.
I worry about not being a good storyteller. And in turn not a good communicator. Writing I feel at home in. It's just speaking where I feel like I never really get where I want or feel I'm capable of. I think sometimes it depends on whom I'm talking to or the setting. But so often I find myself the listener, sitting back, letting someone else do all the legwork. It can be a relief and you know, sometimes I just like listening to other people, watching their lips move, how they get their emotions across. And then I get squashed when they ask about me. Like I'm some sort of grand mystery and they want a heartfelt play-by-play. So much lately I just elect to rush to the end.
I was going to talk about my bus creeper of the day, but I have to wake up at 9:30 tomorrow morning. There's an art history paper that needs my attention so I can actually hang out with my mother when she arrives Monday afternoon.
Also, LA was too warm for me today, but the evening was gorgeous. Not so much the temperature, but simply how the world was colored. I really wish I had more people around me to photograph. If you're up for me following you around with a still camera, lemme know.